Dreamscape
by Summoner Luna
Summary: Time does nothing to erase the nightmares...SnakeMeryl


_They were moving fast, swinging their arms in fluid, surgical motions, jumping from one foot to the other as though choreographed. He would jump, roll, spring up, and she was ready to spring out of the way. Swift, controlled kicks; leaps, with a turn on the landing…engaged in a beautiful dance, where one false step brought the curtain down early._

_He felt the contact, the force behind his motions as her body fell away from him, watched her fall to the ground, struggle to a standing position…and then begin to fall once more, arms crossed to shield her face as she approached the unforgiving ground, her shadow making the small disruption in the ground nearly invisible, and he could not move fast enough, could not even register, as he listened to her scream out his name…_

"Snake!"

He snapped his eyes open, and his feeling of panic was suddenly amplified by the dark room and foreign surroundings. He felt a cold hand on his arm and a weak spasm ran through his body, before the dream finally started to fade.

"You're burning up." Her voice touched his ears and he breathed an involuntary sigh of relief, rolling over to face her. Her pale skin always seemed to glow in the darkness, and she was staring at him with an expression he couldn't quite read.

"I was having…"

"A nightmare, I could tell…Which one was it this time?"

"Fox…Frank. My fight with Frank." But as soon as he said it her look told him the answer wasn't enough.

"I've never seen you react like this to that one. What else?"

"You called me Snake. You never use that name at home."

"I tried…but I figured if you were dreaming about a mission, I had to bring you out of it…and you wouldn't respond to any other name. And don't change the subject!"

"He…It was just the same dream." He knew she didn't buy it, but he wasn't sure if he could tell her…what the nightmare really was. Not for her sake, he knew she'd be able to handle it…but he wasn't sure if he could admit to it.

"…You weren't fighting Frank, though." He remained silent. "Well, who were you fighting?"

"It was the same fight…same movements, same place—"

"—But a different opponent. Well, maybe you can tell me tomorrow, when it's not so fresh, and so frightening. I'm going to get a wet towel, you're skin feels like it's on fire." She moved to the edge of the bed to get up—"No!"

She stopped and looked at him, startled. He lowered his tone, "Don't get up."

She stared again with the same impenetrable expression, and then looked down, and mumbled something, too quietly for him to quite hear.

"I…I didn't understand. Was I meant to?"

She looked back up, her eyes shining on the brink of tears. "You were fighting me, weren't you?"

Again he remained silent. She would know that meant yes, and it would give them both time to decide what to say next. But he had no idea. For almost a year now she had been there, witness to the moments of terror in the moonless hours of the night he was cursed to endure, and often she was in those dreams. But he had never fought her in any. In some, he was too late to save her. In some, she died. But to this point, the minefields—fighting Frank—was by far the worst memory his mind had chosen to make him relive. He couldn't begin to understand why suddenly, she had replaced Frank—why she was the one to die by his own hand. And he didn't want to talk about it, because he didn't want to think about what those reasons may be.

He drew his gaze once more to hers, trying desperately to read whatever she was thinking…and then they moved together. As he reached out to pull her close, she drew herself against him, and he felt something warm against his chest, and realized she was crying.

"I'm sorry." She whispered. The last thing he had expected to hear.

"What on earth do you have to be sorry for?"

"For telling you I wanted to move."

"What does that have to do with…tonight?"

"It reminds you. We're supposed to be a team, and we wanted to go different routes. I wanted to go a different route. It…it reminds you."

He bit his lip, examining what she had said, and realizing how much sense her words made. He wasn't dreaming of any events yet-to-be, or feeling some strange displacement of guilt…he was worried. Worried! He almost smiled at such a simple interpretation.

"You know it won't happen that way though, right?"

"Hmm?"

"Taking separate paths. Ending up on opposite sides."

"Meryl…you can't say you know that. Nobody can know that. Even if your confidence is nice to hear."

"I know. Because this time, nobody is telling us to fight. We choose our battles…and the only way we would be against each other is if we choose to be. And if we reach that…" She reached for his hand, linking her fingers with his. He smiled at her optimism, her naivety, but also at the honesty of her words…he had never fought out of choice before—it had always been under someone's command. He could never choose his opponents, because somebody else chose for him. But he had killed his best friend, his father, and his twin brother…and the only one that haunted him was the one fight he should have avoided. The only one he possibly **could** have avoided. And then he thought…the person who killed his best friend would have left a girl he had known for mere hours to die, if saving her meant risking his mission. Risking his life. He had changed, and he supposed she knew that even if she didn't know the soldier he used to be.

"No. I'm sorry."

"You are?" She blinked at him.

"For forgetting."

She smiled, "It's not forgetting…it's learning. We're both learning."

"Right…learning…" He tightened the arm he held her with drawing her closer, and his fingers brushed against a series of scars she had received to remind her of her captivity. She had fought, then. He knew she must have been under heavy interrogation, but she had fought. He could have sentenced her to death at any time…ended both their torture…but it was never a thought that had crossed his mind. And now, for the following months, they both remained prisoner to their nightmares…but she was always there. She had learned the questions to ask, the ones to avoid, when to push him to talk, when to give him space, and he had never had that with anyone. Despite everything he knew about himself, and knowing that he shouldn't even be capable of caring for someone else, she was far beyond a battle comrade. He had been ready to die for her before. And against training and his own experience, which taught him that a friend one minute could be an enemy the next, he thought, maybe she was right. And maybe he would never transcend the need to fight, but he wasn't supposed to put anyone else's life before his own, either, or question his duty, or object to an order, or fall in love, and he had already done all of those—since he'd met her. He'd lived his life believing he had no choice in what he did, but clearly he did…it would never change or take back the events from his nightmares, but she could be right…he could choose not to create new ones.

He would have told her, but her eyes were closed and her breathing was soft and even…she wasn't completely asleep, but she would be soon, and he had already awakened her once. Instead he gave her hand, still entwined with his, a gentle squeeze and breathed her in, trying to memorize exactly how her body felt against his; her heartbeat lulling him to sleep, into dreams of moving out of the shadow of their nightmares, to anywhere new, anywhere she had in mind.


End file.
